Luck of the Irish
by unifilar
Summary: Who says St. Patrick's Day can't be romantic? Raven and Robin start talking, and she finds out his true heritage...


**Author's Note:** I'll go right ahead and declare that I am mostly Irish. There are some Irish stereotypes mentioned in the following fanfiction, so please don't be offended by them. They were put in purely for the plot- I don't believe in those stereotypes. Thanks. XD

* * *

"You know...some people say they get the impression I'm Irish."

A pretty random statement. But such impromptu comments were forgiven today- because, after all, it WAS a pretty random holiday.

Indeed, celebrating St. Patrick's Day always seemed to pass by without a second thought for some, though was savored gleefully by others. Either way, the meaning behind the celebration was lost to many, and thus it was often associated with aimless glorification.

The aforementioned quote was said by a particularly bored teenage boy, whom of which was sitting on his oversized couch, precariously balancing the TV remote on the very tip of his nose. The announcement was directed to the only other occupier of the room- an equally bored teenage sorceress, whom of which was brewing herself some extra herbal tea in an effort to effectively past the time.

When confronted with this statement, the girl lifted her eyes to the boy, unable to resist a snort of disdain at his own time-consuming antics.

"You don't say." Was all she gave him, as if trying to slam the door shut on their conversation. It didn't occur to her that perhaps talking would be more successful than drinking tea if she wished to be rid of her state of boredom.

Her short answer only invited him to say more. He never did like to end their conversations early.

"I don't know how, really. I lack the Irish accent, the red-haired Irish appearance-" He continued, his list threatening to continue for eternity if the girl didn't stop it.

"The Irish charm." She quipped helpfully, though she realized that this wasn't the correct means to halt the conversation. As suspected, it only egged the boy on.

"If you call getting hideously drunk all the time 'charm'." scoffed the boy, having gained more interest in talking to Raven than keeping the remote on his nose. As such, it fell off his face, landing softly in his lap. With it laying forgotten, he turned his upper body to such an extent he had his chin in his hands as he rested his arms on the back of the couch.

"Point taken." This reply was sure to kill any means of keeping life in the exchange of idle words, and she could've left without another word right then. But, instead, Raven merely cupped her hands around the mug that was filled to the brim with tea, just to feel the warmth rush from the tips of her fingers up her arms. "Besides, Robin, if you were Irish, you'd have to grow an awful beard." She commented rather quickly, not wanting to let the opportunity of continuation of discussion slip away. She had finally decided that, with the air laden with such potential dullness, talking with her team leader seemed promising.

"True. And I've have to be associated with those dreadful leprechauns. I was terrified of those things since I was three- no amount of training could change that." Robin added, chuckling to himself, though his spine was chilling at the thought of those nasty creatures. He put most of his weight on one arm, while pushing off the ground with his feet, throwing himself up and over the back of the sofa, so he was standing solidly smalls steps away from the kitchen area, where Raven was located.

As she turned only her head to look at Robin, both of them let the fact that they were both idly discussing Irish stereotypes sink in. He, the team leader, who was supposed to be all business, always on the job, always working for hours upon end in the privacy of his room. She, the team empath, who was supposed to be always morbid, always emotionless, always reclusive, always spending hours upon hours avoiding contact whilst in the comfort of her own room. Small smiles crossed their faces at the same time, as they realized that the seemingly palpable aspects of themselves they had just thought were just as ridiculous as the Irish prejudices.

And, perhaps, that was the reason they insisted on conversing. Just to spite all those who painted their characters into a corner, all who thought they could be nothing more than what they appeared to be.

A small sound emitted from Raven's lips, sounding suspiciously like a giggle. Robin walked casually over to her as she spoke.

"I never would've thought **you'd** be afraid of tiny little leprechauns. What if one of our enemies finds out about this?" Raven commented, unable to resist replacing what would've been sarcasm and contempt with humor and amusement. The thin threads of steam from her tea crawling into her nose, warming it to the very tissues, made her mind be so naturally at ease- perhaps this was another reason why she was talking so openly. Robin stopped directly in front of her, rather close.

"Slade could invade the city tomorrow with an army of leprechauns, and I'd be helpless to stop him." Robin suggested, bringing a hand to his forehead in mock distress. Such a preposterous idea made Raven break into a fit of laughter, her tea dangerously sloshing around as her body trembled with the exertions of hilarity. And, somehow, seeing Raven laughing at one of his own jokes made Robin start chuckling madly, having to use a hand to lean on the counter, because he felt he couldn't hold himself up. This movement brought Robin to Raven's right, and made her instinctively turn that way- but such a sudden gesture made her tea fulfill its promise to spill. The warm liquid trickled down the front of Robin's uniform, leaving quite a big stain, and abruptly the pair stopped laughing.

Raven began to blush, and the fact that she knew she was blushing made her grow even redder. Again, acting upon instinct (which, apparently, isn't the smartest thing to do), Raven reached forward and began to wipe off the tea with her hand. But, oddly enough, rubbing someone's thoroughly wet chest does not cease the embarrassment- it merely increases it. Realizing what an awkward situation she had gotten herself into, Raven pulled back hastily, mumbling a suggestion about a towel.

But Robin didn't seem concerned about his outfit. Instead, he gently took Raven's mug from her, the majority of its contents having been poured on him. Maybe it was the warm tea that was soaking into the part of his shirt right over his heart, or maybe it was the fact both of them were invading each other's personal space- but Robin lifted his hand to brush away some of Raven's hair that had dangled in front of her face. Shocked at his intimacy, Raven could only watch as he smiled at her, then began to walk to the nearby cabinet, her mug in hand.

"You gotta admit, though." He said, firmly breaking the silence as he dropped the used mug into the sink, while opening the cabinet door. "Being Irish has one major benefit." He pulled out another, sleeker cup, and also a packet of a type of tea that Raven never had before. He moved to the kettle, pouring the new brand of tea into the still-boiling water, watching the flavor be dispersed evenly. While waiting for the tea to be ready to drink, he glanced back to Raven.

"They get to wear the 'Kiss me, I'm Irish' shirts." With a wink so fast Raven questioned its existence, he returned to the matter of making tea, using a conveniently-placed spoon to help speed along the process. Raven finally found a chance to redeem herself for her blunder earlier.

"A benefit to who? The men who where the shirt, or the poor souls who have to kiss them?" And with such a witty comment like that, Robin good-naturedly laughed, still awaiting the tea to be at the peak of quality.

A moment or so later- Raven lost track of time, she was busy embracing the silence that was interwoven with the seductive smell of freshly-brewed tea. She was not bored, as she thought she would've been with the coming of silence, but instead captivated with watching Robin as he cooked, his arms working delicately to stir for the best results, the hot steam caressing his form's every detail. She was almost sad when her observations were cut short, when Robin turned to give Raven her tea.

Giving Robin a "I hope you aren't as good a cook as you are a comedian" look, Raven lifted the cup to her lips, turning it ever-so-gently, so the contents flowed sparingly into her mouth. The taste was none she could've expected- smooth, rich, every dissolved grain having blossomed into the very embodiment of sumptuousness. Instantly, her taste buds demanded more, and she had gulped down the drink so fast Robin allowed himself a good chuckle.

"I take it you like it, then?" He asked, and in the essence of this statement was a subtle hint of longing for a positive answer. He leaned forward, using his forearms to hold up his upper body over the counter. Raven, her hands still wrapped around the mug, as if someone would steal it away from her (and, thus, stealing the heavenly extract from her tongue), grinned in gratitude up to Robin.

"I **loved** it. What kind was it?" She asked suddenly, desirous of an answer. However, the cook didn't respond right away, and instead slid his hands over Raven's, comforting them more than the warm surface of the mug ever could. He brought his face close.

"Irish tea." Willing to take full advantage of the momentary surprise of his answer, Robin leaned forward slightly, so his lips softly met Raven's, her lips of which were still dripping with tea.

This embrace lasted a few blessed seconds longer, before Robin broke away, the taste of the delicious drink now being savored in his own taste buds. Leaving Raven in a mixed state of shock, serenity, and ecstasy, he graced her with one last smile, before beginning to leave the room.

"I'll be back to watch the St. Patrick's Day parade with you, _bean mo chroi_." He said the last three words with such perfect emphasis, his tongue carving the syllables with undeniable perfection, that Raven whirled her head in bewilderment to watch him go. Raven smiled to herself as she licked her lips, wanting to treasure every impression that had been left upon them. As she went to refill her mug, she considered the possibility that maybe Robin had more of the Irish charm than he let on...

The phrase 'bean mo chroi' was Irish, and though Raven didn't know it at the time, it lavishly meant, 'woman of my heart'.


End file.
